A Night of Life

I want to thank Beauteous for creating the characters and the setting for this story – essentially, she wrote the most important parts. I had the easy part to write: the SEX! A good time was enjoyed by all…J

Angelina shivered, although the room was not cold. James stood at the entrance of the bedroom, waiting. Max sat heavily on the bed, removing his socks and shoes. Angelina noticed the socks were stained and one had a hole in the toe. He patted the bed beside him. Angelina sat and removed hers as well. Why was James still standing in the doorway? She motioned him in. He gave a tentative smile, bent, removed his socks and shoes, and then sat on the other side of her. The room smelled musty. Max had obviously not thought to air it out before their rendezvous.

Max gently kissed her cheek. There was a time when those full lips alone would have made her wet. Instead, she felt a surge of anger. How could he kiss her with such affection? As though he truly loved her?

Max, the giant, was such an opposite of her first love. Stephen had been slight, almost bony, a waif of a man, yet he had called her his Little Vixen. God, she had loved him, drunk on love. What was most unbelievable was how much he adored her in return. When he was diagnosed with leukaemia, she’d thought, “Ah, so that’s it. The universe could never allow such happiness to continue,” and she’d been right. He was dead within a year. She might as well have been also. For two years, she walked around like a robot, functioning, efficient, but without emotion. She hadn’t even reacted when the mugger or rapist or whatever he was accosted her in the underground parking one night when she’d stayed late after work.

That’s how she had met Max. He’d heard her scream. She didn’t remember doing it; it must have been an automatic reflex. Max had come racing out of the dark and slammed the man against a concrete pole hard enough to send the knife flying. Her attacker had taken one look at this colossus and run for his life. The police never caught the man. Max had stuck by her for the entire night and driven her home afterward. They wound up in bed. She couldn’t remember how. Perhaps it was another automatic reflex.

From that moment on, Max considered Angelina his girl. She neither confirmed nor denied it. Sex had been rather routine. She seldom orgasmed, and when she did it was a biological response. He made love as though mining for gold, with exact attention, but no true joy. They never, ever laughed.

She felt momentarily sorry for James, stuck in the middle of “The Zombie and the Giant Have Sex.” They’d been together now for six months and Max had continually brought up the subject of a threesome. She’d laughed the first time, thinking he was doing a Seinfeld joke. She could not wrap her head around the idea of touching another woman intimately. She thought about Max with another woman and felt…nothing. If Stephen had ever wanted someone else, Angelina would have had to kill her. She’d told Max they might be better off apart. He responded with “the plan” to spice up their relationship. Perhaps if he’d been more interested in spicing her up, she might have actually felt something. He was coarse and dull but safe.

He’d spoken of love, but nothing beyond, as though that was the final destination. Now, it had become perfunctory. “Have a nice day – I love you.” “Can you pick up the dry cleaning? – I love you.” “Suck my cock because I’m horny after reading the latest Penthouse – I love you.” There were moments when she wished she could force him to take it back. Rewind. It seemed an abuse of the phrase, the way he used it. She’d never said it back.

Eventually, Max had switched tactics. “Wouldn’t you like to be the tomato sandwich?” “You know how sometimes I cum too fast for you. Two guys could definitely satisfy you.”

Angelina had argued about venereal disease, their reputations being ruined, blackmail, everything except what she really felt. How could he ever want another man to touch her the way he did? How could he want that intrusion, that violation of their relationship? “What if we like it? Are we going to invited every available guy into our bed afterward?” He’d laughed and said if she liked. At that moment, she had hated him. That wasn’t love. Love was being the center of each other’s universe, the yin to their yang. There was no yung spinning in the circle. Just two.

James lifted a lock of her long auburn hair, twirled it around his fingers, closed his eyes, and inhaled its scent. She remembered his poem: “I closed my eyes, your scent Floated by on gossamer flies.” She looked into his quiet face. He wore his brown hair very short and had a mild widow’s peak. His goatee and moustache were neatly trimmed. His eyebrows were thick, but not unruly, one slightly more pointed than the other. His ears were small and very flat against his perfectly shaped head. He was sturdily built, a sensual languidness about his movements. His eyes were almond shaped and piercingly blue, such a contrast to her deep brown.

Max pulled her sweater over her head, catching it on one earring.

“Ow!” she protested.

James deftly untangled it, folded the sweater and tossed it into the corner. His eyes strayed down over her bra to her swell of breasts. Angelina felt a blush rise. Max unhooked her bra and threw it onto the sweater. Angelina resisted the urge to cross her arms.

“You’re beautiful,” whispered James.

The voice felt so strange and so familiar. She’d heard it so many times on Literotica. Done embarrassingly private things as he’d read poems: “We can only be described as sexy beasts of nature, oh so primal.” Although they were not alike physically, something about his intensity reminded her of Stephen. He’d also made her laugh in their emails, a rarity these days.

She’d loved all the poems, even the indecipherable one in French, a romantic banquet of sound. She’d been deeply touched by many works, digging deep into the dark places of the soul – lonely, afraid, wistful, lusty, and so much more. Even before they started exchanging letters, she felt as though she knew a part of him few people ever shared. She had never seriously pursued a relationship with him. That way lies pain, she’d thought. Besides, he wrote once in reference to another woman “Don’t ever tie me down.” They’d exchanged silly jokes about bondage. But, inside, she felt a small twinge of disappointment, a thread of hope snapping.

Now, here they were, the three of them. Max had finally convinced Angelina to acquiesce when she, in a pathetic attempt to make him jealous, had confessed her attraction to a romantic stud on the internet who wrote erotica. She wanted him to say he could never stand the idea of another man kissing her, never mind fucking her. Instead, Max had written to James telling him his girlfriend was interested and would he like a ménage e trois. Angelina told neither of them she had already been writing to James for months under an assumed name, Vixen. Mild flirtations. They discussed joy of dancing like no one was watching, his writing, and a male perspective on relationships. He’d replied with class and maturity to all of her rants and queries. When she coquettishly asked what the hands of such an experienced lover looked like, he’d emailed her digital photographs. She burst out laughing, an unfamiliar sound.

Now, James sat beside her on the bed, softly trailing his fingertips up her arm, from waist, to inner elbow, to shoulder, to throat, the way she loved. She’d mentioned that once in a letter to him, but since he didn’t know Angelina was Vixen, it must be a coincidence. To her, skin was a canvas. She’d never liked painters who didn’t fill all the spaces, every corner with colour and texture and life. He kissed her shoulder, then along the back edge of her shoulder blade, to her throat and back down, gently biting her in the curve. Goose bumps rose all over her body.

Angelina stiffened, wanting to strike him. Max knelt in front of her and took her left nipple in his mouth, fingering the other one. She resisted the urge to pull away. James kissed her ear and whispered, “Relax.”

She nodded, but a tear slipped down her cheek. James caught it on his fingertip, examined it, and then shook his head.

“She doesn’t want to do this,” he said.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” snapped Max. “She agreed. She thought you were hot.”

“Never-the-less, it’s not a good idea. I’m leaving.”

“Fuck that and fuck you.”

“You asshole—“ Angelina stood up and pressed her hand on James’ chest.

“Yes, I have some things I need to say to Max. I never should have involved you. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” said James. He stood, picked up his shoes and socks, and walked out.

“Where the fuck are you going?” called Max.

Angelina had not been far behind him. She’d send her brother over to pick up her stuff. She never wanted to see him again. Max was stunned. Totally clueless. She didn’t have the energy or the inclination to explain. She was still sorting it out herself.

A block down the street, blues music oozed out from the Lost Hope Bar. She figured it was a perfect choice. The bartender brought her vodka, straight up with a concerned look. She glanced in the mirror. God, she was a sight. Makeup streaked. Hair mussed. One collar up and one down. She tried to tidy herself, then turned away from the mirror to watch the band.

They were first-rate. She’d never been in here before. Max didn’t like blues and he said queers hung out at that bar. Her foot started tapping to the beat.

“Want to dance?” said a familiar voice.

Angelina whirled on her stool, stumbled and fell, face to face with James.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m just a klutz.”

“No. I mean, are you okay?”

“Oh. I think so. I feel like I’ve unloaded a 200 pound weight.”

“That giant. At least 250.” They laughed. “You look better than the last time I saw you.”

Angelina smiled, remembering her worse-for-wear reflection. “Yes.”

“Pardon?”

“I do want to dance.”

It was a slow, sultry piece. Their bodies clicked together. She waited to see if his rhythm was one she could follow. He moved with a subtle grace. In moments, they were dancing as though they had been doing it for years.

When the music sped up, again they matched. Both gave themselves over to the beat yet not losing the connection. She never did finish her drink. They spent most of the evening on the floor. When the bartender called, “Last call!” they decided to beat the rush.

“Can I give you a drive home?” asked James.

“Where are you staying?” asked Angelina.

“The Silver Anchor.”

“I’d rather go there.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded and smiled. They held hands as they fought the wind to his car.

She thought she’d feel shy, but it almost seemed familiar. Not like Stephen, but comforting still. He gently pushed her hair back off her face. She felt his lips press against hers; they were soft, gentle in their movement across her mouth and face – and his scent flooded her nostrils. A mix of cigarette smoke and vodka, a touch of musk and a hint of male sensuality bathed in music. James smelled of the place they’d just danced, and he twirled her as he fumbled with his key and opened the door to his hotel room.

Angelina broke his embrace and pulled off her coat. She noticed that the room was all in coloured pastels – comforting and soothing. The contrast between James and Max was striking. Sometimes, she felt a hint of Stephen around him, but the image dissipated when James moved; his size was more akin to Max’s. If anything, he was somewhere between the both of them: Max’s reassuring size with Stephen’s tenderness and thoughtfulness.

“Penny for your thoughts,” James said as he joined her while she stood in the middle of the room. He handed her a glass of port wine. “You seemed gone there for a second.”

“No,” she answered, “not gone. Just remembering better times.” She gulped the wine – the port was satiny smooth as it passed over her tongue. The aftertaste was somewhat chocolaty. James moved closer to her.

“There was something we started earlier,” he whispered in her ear. He gripped her glass and lifted it until it was between them. He twisted it around until where she’d touched it with her lips was facing him. He touched the same spot with his own. “But that doesn’t mean it has to finish here.”

Angelina took her glass and sat on the bed, taking a longer, deeper drink. James stared at the ruby liquid in his own glass and gulped down half of it. She was amazed, he appeared as nervous as she was.

“That’s why I’m here, James. I need to finish it. Whatever happens… it happens because I want it to.”

He finished his glass and joined her. His scent filled her nostrils again – this time, it was spicier. She noticed a bulge in his pants when he took her shoulders and turned her away. Angelina anxiously waited for something to happen – she closed her eyes when he began to knead her shoulders, his fingers expertly digging to where tension hid. He poked and prodded, fingers composing rhythmic flirtations while strumming across her flesh; his thumbs made small circles from the base of her hairline to the beginning of her spine.

“The sweater?” James asked.

She nodded. She caught her breath when she felt his fingers slip under the edge of the fabric and pull the sweater over her head. For the second time tonight, Angelina was in front of James only in her bra, ready to explore feelings long thought dead. But this time, there was no place she’d rather be. When he deftly undid her bra and pushed it passed her shoulders, she began to turn around, but he held her shoulders firmly. Instead, he guided her onto the bed and laid her down face first.

Angelina rested uneasily as she heard him unfasten his belt. “James, what are you doing?”

“I want you to feel good tonight. Do you trust me?” He kissed the small of her back.

“I… Yes.” Goosebumps across her flesh as the threat of mystery clouded her reason.

She heard him disrobe completely and fought the urge to turn around. She felt him straddle her ass – something hard bumped against her buttocks. She felt heat through the material of her skirt; a sac scrunched against the bulge of her rear. He was naked on her. She bit her lower lip in fearful expectation. He pressed his hands against her kidneys – she closed her eyes – he pressed into her flesh with the same delicate but firm digits he’d massaged her neck. Each stroke drew a sigh from her lips as he traced the curve of her spine, following the natural contours of the muscles in her back. From each vertebra he pushed outward; Angelina’s sense of relaxation grew steadily as each vertebra was treated.

She was sighing deeply when she felt James rest his entire weight on her back. His breathing matched hers and their combined heat was soothing. She enjoyed the sensation of the hairs of his stomach and chest against her skin. He was like a living, silken blanket. She giggled when he began to play with her ear with his lips – even as she laughed, he was running his fingers deeply into the flesh of her arms. Her limbs were now gloriously heavy.

“Was that good?”

“Hmmm…” she acknowledged.

“So you wouldn’t mind if I did your lower half?”

“Un-un…”

Still savouring his sensations, Angelina wiggled her ass as he tugged her skirt off her subtly curved hips. She knew she wasn’t a swimsuit model by any means, but she’d always enjoyed the attention she captured when wearing the right outfit – Stephen had commented from time to time on how lucky he was: “This will be totally superficial Vixen, but you’re smart and beautiful. I’ve got the whole shebang in one sassy package!”

“Hummmm!” James exclaimed as he looked at her ass through her black silk panties. Angelina ground her hips into the bed in a sensual come hither motion.

James slipped his fingers through the leg holes and massaged her ass with almost holy dedication; her flesh was firm, but also soft, feminine and inviting. She raised her hips, allowing him to pull the underwear down. She was now totally nude.

“Beautiful,” James whispered. To Angelina’s disbelief, she sank even deeper into relaxation as his fingers worked her legs. She felt her muscles stretch out and almost melt away, as if they were flowing across the bed in a responsive puddle. Her body was now immobile; each breath was deep and fulfilling – she felt she could stay like this forever.

“Angelina,” James said. She knew his meaning, and despite the heaviness of her limbs, she slowly turned over onto her back. She opened her eyes as well. James stood at the foot of the bed – he was as she’d imagined him. He was broad shouldered and barrel chested; his entire body was covered with a fine thickness of hair. Despite his average height, there was a virile strength to his body – he stretched, and Angelina thought of a lazy tomcat, confident in his control over his territory, but ready to spring to action. His pubic hair was trimmed short and his cock – uncircumcised -- was not the longest nor the shortest she’d ever seen; but it was thick and almost perfectly cylindrical in shape . The foreskin was not pulled back completely from the head. It stood straight and ready.

She felt his eyes on her body as he started to massage her feet. He seemed to instinctively locate the pressure points attached to the more sensitive areas of her body. Her hips moved autonomously as he pressed the centre of her arch with his thumbs – her legs parted slightly, readily. She’d missed that sense of involuntary willingness to accept a cock. Again, a flash of Stephen’s gentle touch burst in her mind.

But it faded as James began to massage her legs, pushing upwards to her pubic triangle of trimmed auburn hair. She watched intently as he passed that delta and reached her tummy. She stifled a giggle as he trailed his fingertips lightly over her skin. James straddled her again; she enjoyed his presence on her belly. He reached up and started to massage her face; applying finger pressure, he followed the lines of her features. She felt her face stretch, almost flatten as he pressed deeply into her. Again, he followed the lines of her body – down her neck and across her shoulders, she was relaxing, becoming almost entranced by his attention and touch.

He’d taken great care to avoid touching her breasts; she wanted desperately to feel those masterful fingers explore her sensitive mounds of flesh. They’d fallen slightly to her sides – again, her breasts weren’t the smallest or the largest, but like her ass and her legs, they could attract the attention of either men or other women. James locked his eyes with hers and he touched her tits, pushing them together so that the nipples were only inches apart. Angelina smiled and he put one of the nubs into his mouth. Like his fingers, his tongue was expert in bringing life to her nipple. He moved from one to the other, humming and lashing with his tongue while his fingers seemed to almost slip past her skin to reach her nerves directly. He bit, licked, pinched, squeezed; she sighed, moaned, trembled, gasped.

While James enjoyed her breasts, Angelina slipped her hands beneath his arms and started to stroke his cock. When he felt her fingers, pleasure seized him. Her fingers traced the shape of his member – it twitched, happy for the attention it received from a beautiful woman. Angelina pulled his foreskin back, fascinated by the tender purple coloration of the exposed glans. James let go of her breasts and leaned back, supporting himself on his arms while she rubbed and pressed his cock into her stomach.